


Worth Dying For

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Clint Coulson Holiday Exchange, Dante - Freeform, First Kiss, Fix-It, Hell, M/M, Philly Airport is the ninth level of Hell, Road Trips, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Run back and tell your boss that I know how this game is played. I can’t play the harp or the fiddle and I suck at Twister, but I can still bargain for Phil’s soul,” Clint said. “Rumor is I’m not half bad with a bow.”</p>
<p>“Clint. You’re the World’s Greatest Marksman, but even you can be distracted. Duquesne is here … and worse. Don’t do this,” Barney practically begged. </p>
<p>“Bring on Fluffy and the hell of being boiled alive.” Clint crossed his arms over his chest, set on his course. “I had Loki in my head; I’ve been in hell for awhile now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth Dying For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SisterOfWar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterOfWar/gifts).



> Written for SisterofWar's prompt: "Clint descends into the underworld to get Phil back (a la Orpheus)"
> 
> I often joke that Philadelphia Airport is the ninth level of hell, so a number of the airport stories come from personal experience; I think everyone can identify with the frustration. 
> 
> I've mixed in a little bit of the comics and "Earth's Mightiest Heroes" but basically this is an MCU universe where "Agents of SHIELD" never happened.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Flight 7834 will be arriving at gate B14. Repeat. Flight 7834 will now be arriving at gate B14. We’re sorry for any inconvenience.”

Phil Coulson tilted his head and strained to hear the barely recognizable human voice over the din of the crowded gate area. On his left was a family with three kids under the age of five; the baby hadn’t stopped screaming the whole time they’d been waiting, the two-year-old had wiped her sticky hands on his pants leg, and the five-year-old was swinging his leg and kicking the row of black seats with a steady thump thump thump. Neither mom nor dad had cared to stop them. On his right was a woman in her sixties, wearing Alfred Dunner clothes in a loud floral print. She kept up a running monologue about her grandchildren including a huge slideshow of pictures on the phone she couldn’t figure out how to use.

It was a relief to pick up his bags and extricate himself from the row, stepping over empty fast food cups, diaper bags, and overfilled rolling suitcases. Threading his way into the traffic of the hallway, he walked to an airport diagram. Currently in terminal E, Phil sighed when he realized he had to find the Skylink, the tram that connected the sprawling buildings that were part of Dallas/Ft. Worth International. B Terminal was on the opposite side of the airport. He checked his watch; twenty minutes until estimated time for his flight to land. If things went his way, he just might make it. Of course, he was at the furthest gate from the tram. Well, he could move fast when he had to. He slung his laptop case over his shoulder and began walking.

* * *

“Where to?”

Clint blinked and shuffled the step forward to the ticket window. He’d zoned out again; looking up, he picked the first destination that was leaving within the hour.

“Albuquerque,” he answered.

“That’s $325,” the man said, typing in the information. He eyed the duffle and bow case at Clint’s feet. “Would you like a priority seat with wifi and more legroom? It’ll add $25 to the cost.”

“Sure.” Clint didn’t give a shit. He’d left all his electronics at the tower along with the two trackers he’d cut out, covering the sliced skin with bandaids.  But the legroom would be nice if he slept, so he counted out eighteen twenty dollar bills, accepting the ten in change and the ticket.

“Boarding will start in about fifteen minutes,” the man told him, already moving on to the passenger behind Clint.

The Port Authority Bus Terminal was packed even at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night. Clint stood in line to get a large cup of coffee -- black, one sugar -- and barely had time to get back to the boarding area before his bus number was called. His go bag was small enough to fit under the seat and the collapsible bow case was no bigger than his seat mate’s CPAP machine, so he took them on with him. The bow was his own, one he’d bought and stored in a safe house; it had never been in either a SHIELD facility or the tower.

First thing Clint did was pop in his earphones and pull up his hoodie. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he slumped down and stared out the window at the lights of the city. He figured he had no more than twelve hours before he was missed. Faking out Steve and Bruce was one thing, but fooling JARVIS was harder. He’d had to bring Kate into the plan to make it look like he was still in town for the night so he could get a head start. Four airline tickets, three taxis, two trains, a missing car, and three bus tickets ought to confuse things even more. By the time Nat got back from her mission later this week, he’d be gone to ground and even she wouldn’t find him.

Or so he hoped. He had no desire for his oldest surviving friend to see the lengths he was willing to go to avoid anyone knowing just how fucked up he was. Now, almost two years later, everyone else had moved on; Clint had just gotten good at pretending.

* * *

 The roar of the wind woke Phil; the windows rattled in the darkness. No red numbers from the alarm clock next to the rock hard mattress in the cheap hotel room. No light from outside; the power was out as a storm raged around him. The screen of his phone flashed bright when he checked the time just as another gust shook the whole building. 3:26 a.m. The sound of a freight train grew closer as the bed rocked and the walls appeared to sway.

“Fuck.” Phil dropped his head back on the musty flat pillow. What a mess. By the time he got to the new gate yesterday, he learned all flights had been cancelled because of a severe weather front. After waiting in long lines to reschedule, he had to take an absurdly early morning flight with three connections to get to New York City anytime tomorrow. With no luggage, it was a mad scramble to find a hotel room for the night, and he’d ended up at this low end chain motel twenty minutes away. They’d promised a ride back to the airport at 4 a.m. so he could get new tickets issued and through security before his 5:45 a.m. flight.

Dressing by phone light was quick; Phil had taken a taxi to a local mall last night and bought clean underwear and socks, but he still felt wrinkled and smelly in yesterday’s shirt and unpressed suit. He had to take the stairs down two floors to get to the lobby. Shattered glass littered the tile, wind blowing rain onto the patterned sofa, fake plants pushed up against the empty check-in desk.

“Hello?” Phil looked all directions, but no employee was in sight. He checked his watch; 3:47. “Anyone here?”

Only the patter of water answered his question. He walked behind the counter and opened the door marked Do Not Enter. The small room with a desk and photocopier was empty, its windows blown in and curtains flapping free.

4:04. Phil sighed and looked out the missing front doors; no shuttle or van was in the parking lot. Absently he rubbed at the constriction in his chest and tried to take a deep breath. This was a clusterfuck of a trip. He just wanted to get home and sleep in his own bed again, not stand in the rain at o-dark thirty with a tornado moving off to the east.

The black Lincoln Town Car eased up to the doorway, rolling to a stop just in front of Phil. A heavily tinted window slid down with motorized ease and a puff of smoke rolled out  Only the silhouette of the driver could be seen, leaning forward, arm across the steering wheel, dark glasses hiding his eyes.

“Hey, buddy,” he called in a raspy voice. “You need a ride?”

Every instinct, honed over years of dangerous experiences, screamed at Phil. “No, thank you,” he replied.

The window went back up and the car rolled forward, stopped, then reversed, window gliding down again. “Wherever you’re going, I can get you there.”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

Phil didn’t untense his muscles until the car disappeared out onto the main road and the airport shuttle turned into the parking lot. Whatever had just happened, exhaustion rolled through Phil as if he had been in a major firefight. He barely got situated in the van before he had to close his eyes and rest.

* * *

 Springfield, Missouri seemed as good a place as any to get off the bus. Clint had slept in fits and snatches between nightmares tinged blue and filled with ice. So he slipped out of the terminal and disappeared into the early morning twilight. Breakfast was a burrito from a Mexican grocery store where he picked up a Mexican Nationals hat and a bottle of peroxide and towel he used to dye his hair in a gas station bathroom. About 11 a.m., he hitched a ride on an 18 wheeler heading south towards Little Rock; the driver waited ten minutes before asking Clint if he knew Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior. Still, the Bible quotes and discussion about eternal life weren’t all that bad a conversation; Jason had a son in the military and soon they were hip deep talking about guns and the merits of humanitarian interventions.

Clint might have stayed with Jason for the rest of his haul if he hadn’t seen the man in a suit buying a sandwich and powdered donuts at the truck stop. For a second, it was Phil standing there and Clint fled out into the parking lot, choosing a truck at random, opening the back and finding boxes of milled metal parts. Curling up in the small space between cardboard, he used his jacket as a pillow and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memories away.

* * *

 The wait in customs was over two hours. Phil checked all the exits, surveyed the passengers and made seventeen different plans for ways to get past security just in case. He checked his phone for messages  -- no bars and his battery was on red. Even his Starkpad was dead, used too much on the international flight from Lisbon to Philadelphia. The lines moved at a crawl; Phil switched twice then gave up when the new line slowed to a halt. Endless rounds of same questions … business or pleasure, reason for visiting … and still people weren’t ready, didn’t have their passport out, stumbled over their answers, raising all sorts of red flags. Extra guards were brought in, luggage searched, more paperwork called for.

Then he was through to the next room; angry people pushed and shoved their way forward through those stopped, confused and uncertain of what to do. The conveyor belt where they should put their luggage wasn’t working; a slim man in a security uniform was shouting to be heard.

“Unfortunately, the luggage return system is broken. Please take your luggage to the ticketing desks. Just follow the signs to the main terminal,” he kept repeating.

Phil nudged a gaggle of texting teenagers out of the way and threaded through the long line of people waiting with overpacked bags for the one elevator. He slung his overnight bag on shoulder and his tac duffle over the other, taking the stairs two at a time down to the train platform. It too was jammed with bodies and suitcases; the flashing words scrolled across a long sign, explaining the next train would be arriving in nine minutes. Working his way to the far end, Phil found a tiny section of the concrete to claim; by his headcount he’d never make it onto the next one, but maybe the second.

Absently rubbing his chest, he felt exhaustion creep up on him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep, not with one mission after another. Planes were not conducive to quality rest; what he wanted was his own bed in his apartment, the one with the slight dip in the middle and the soft cotton sheets that would be cool against his skin. Or the comfortable couch in his living room with the burgundy throw that Clint had bought that time he’d dragged Phil out shopping. They had spent too many nights on the sofa when the other was ensconced in Phil’s bed, recovering from a broken bone or bruised ribs or surgery. Clint wouldn’t stay in medical, but he’d gladly veg out at Phil’s, watching Netflix and eating take-out until he was better.

Clint. Phil wondered what had happened to Clint. Was he still under Loki’s control? Had Natasha gotten him out? Did they …

He blinked at the sound of a child screaming in his ear. The dark-skinned mother was jiggling the baby, trying to soothe his heart-rending cries.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s hungry. We just need to get somewhere I can feed him.”

Phil glanced at the information sign, did a double take, and glanced again. The next train will arrive in nine minutes, it still said. He checked his watch; he’d been standing here over thirty minutes. If anything, the platform was even more crowded, a sea of uncomfortable bodies.

A sign on the pillar above him said the main terminal was a quarter of a mile if he followed the blue line. With a sigh, Phil picked his bags back up and pressed through until he exited the mass of people, heading in the direction of the helpful arrows painted on the ground.

* * *

 

Ann Arbor was a college town; the University of Michigan was the center of the city with almost 60,000 students. Clint milled about the downtown area, found a little hole-in-the-wall falafel place, ate three bites of a delicious gyro then tossed the rest in favor of some whiskey at a ratty bar on 4th Avenue. He fell into conversation with the ex-auto worker who was behind the bar, commiserating at how rotten life was. Most of the patrons were the kinds of guys who worked at the university in maintenance and security; Clint felt right at home with the blue collar atmosphere. This was the kind of place they’d find when they were on missions, where locals hung out and knew everything about everybody.  Phil would loosen his tie and take off his jacket, sipping a whiskey or a bottle of beer while Clint ate pretzels or ordered potato skins, settling in and getting friendly with the patrons.

He stayed the whole afternoon and into the dinner hour, nursing one drink. The bartender went off duty, a younger woman taking his place, and more people trickled in after their shifts ended. A middle aged guy in jeans, a green canvas jacket over his plaid shirt, took the stool next to Clint and the TVs came on to the game. Clint didn’t even know who was playing, but it didn’t matter. There was always a game.

The guy was a hunter who was heading west towards Lansing for a weekend getaway with some friends. He offered Clint a ride; no rhyme nor reason, that was Clint’s plan, so he hopped into the Chevy El Camino and listened to George Strait until they pulled over to fill up the tank. Looking up, Clint saw a man in a suit enter the little country store, walk so familiar that Clint was out of the car before he even realized it and through the glass doorway.

_Welcome to Hell!_ , a sign proclaimed.

_Send a postcard from Hell!_ , said another.

_Hell, MI, Post Office_ , said a banner over a closed window.

Post cards, t-shirts, mugs, shot glasses, everything was emblazoned with burning letters, proclaiming this was Hell.

“Can I help you?” A pimply teenager behind the counter asked.

“The man who just came in here, where did he go?” Clint asked.

“Sorry, dude. You’re the only guy who’s been here since like six,” the cashier replied.

Clint turned and crashed back out the door. Night had fallen, the one lone street light flickering against the dark, casting a small circle of brightness around the pumps. The El Camino was gone; in its place was a black Lincoln Town Car, tinted windows rolled up, parked in the shadowy edge of the light. Leaning against the passenger’s side fender was a man in a perfectly cut suit, Wayfarers covering his eyes. His golden skin shown in the light, rays reflected off his bald head.

“Sitwell?” Clint came to a stop a good dozen steps away. “You can’t be here. There’s no way you survived.”

He tipped the shades down his nose and looked over the top of them. “Who says I did? And this is Hell, in case you didn’t notice. Where did you think I’d end up?”

“Fuck.” Clint closed his eyes, opened them again. Sitwell was still there. Behind him, a bug catcher zapped, a crackle of electricity. In the distance, a quick roll of thunder sounded. “I’ve gone off the deep end finally. Or this is a trick of Loki’s. I never believed that damn bastard was dead.”

“I won’t say you’re mentally stable,” Jasper said. “But then you’ve never played with a full deck. And, yeah, Loki’s still alive but he’s too busy pretending to be Odin in Asgard to bother with you.”

“Wait. What?” That threw Clint off his game. Loki was Odin? Thor’s father who’d banished him to Earth because … oh holy hell. That made far too much sense. “Then what the fuck is this?”

“Look, it’s simple, okay? I’ve got one chance to get myself into something a little nicer. Not heaven, of course; the whole HYDRA thing nixed that option, but there are much better ways to spend eternity that being gnawed on forever by other HYDRA agents. Limbo looks pretty damn good instead of an eternity of being eaten.” Jasper pushed away from the car. “You help me solve a problem, and I get booted up a few levels.”

“Why would I want to help you? You sold us out, Jasper. You were one of Phil’s best friends; how could you do it?” Clint demanded.

“You of all people should understand,” he replied. “People like us, with pasts to hide, we know that we have to make difficult choices. I was Phil’s friend, yours too. But some things are more important. Ask yourself; what would you do to protect Phil?”

“You were protecting someone? Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped.”

Jasper’s laugh was rough and hollow. “Nah, you couldn’t have. But you can now. Get in the car and come with me.”

“There is no way in hell I’m getting in that car,” Clint said.

“That’s a good one,” Jasper snorted.  “But I can get you to do it with three words or less.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Jasper opened the passenger door. “Phil needs you.”

Clint got in the car.

* * *

A mountain of luggage blocked the first set of sliding glass doors, piled almost up to the second floor. People on the escalator pushed their bags over the moving railing to add to it. On the ground floor, long haphazard lines snaked to the counters, blocking any chance of getting to the gate area. The scene reminded Phil of that movie Clint loved, the sci-fi one where Bruce Willis was a taxi driver and there was a garbage strike at the airport. One of his comfort movies, Clint called it, that he’d put in the DVD player to relax after missions.

As he pushed his way to the escalator and tried to get up, Phil got an elbow in his face for his trouble as a businessman in a cowboy hat tossed his fat suitcase onto the pile. Fighting the urge to push the man over -- his belt buckle would weigh him down and the mountain would cushion the fall -- Phil settled for an elbow in the back as an equal reaction and climbed over two backpackers and a set of twins to get to the second floor.

The big board told him his flight to New York was at Gate F39 which, of course, was hell and gone from Terminal B where he was now. Ignoring the flashing signs for a train that seemed to not be running, Phil set out to walk the distance, passing through the main food court and shopping area. According to his watch, he had twenty three minutes before boarding was to begin. He could make it. Using every skill he had, he weaved through the heavy foot traffic, skirting around slow movers and breaking lines at fast food places. He took the outside doors, walking along the sidewalk instead of fighting through the connectors.

As he entered F terminal, he glanced up at the board and came to a stop. According to the listing, his flight was now boarding at Gate B16. It took him three minutes to track down a blue blazer wearing employee at a gate.

“Excuse me,” Phil said, stepping up to the desk. “Can you tell me which gate United 1349 to New York City is leaving from?”

The middle aged woman never looked up from her phone. “Check the board.”

“The board in B & C terminal say it’s here. The board here says its back at B terminal. Can you check?”

Her fingers flew over the keys as she texted. “The board is right. They probably just changed it.”

“Look, it’s a long way back and if it’s really here, I’m going to miss my flight.” Phil was starting to lose his cool. “If you could just get on your computer …”

“I can’t do that. I don’t work for United, I work for American.” She swiped the screen and found the emoji she was looking for.

“Are you telling me you don’t know what plane is at what gate?” Phil’s voice grew cold, but the woman wasn’t bothered.

“I’m sorry sir. I have to go do my job now.” She walked off, leaving Phil fuming. At the end of his rope, Phil saw the the status of his flight disappear from the board altogether. Not a single United desk was in the whole terminal; according to the map he was going to have to go back to the main concourse again.

At the far end of the hallway, Phil caught a glimpse of purple. Bodies moved all directions, a kaleidoscope of colors, shapes and sizes. For a second, the path cleared and Phil saw a man in Converse sneakers, torn jeans, and a purple hoodie, blonde hair peeping out.

“Clint?” He took two steps that way; a school travel group flowed around him, bright backpacks and chattering teenagers, and Clint, if it was Clint, was gone.

* * *

 “Milwaukee? Really?” Clint asked, eyeing the sign for the Lake Express Ferry as the car inched forward in line. “Phil’s in Wisconsin?”

“I know it’s an act, Barton,” Sitwell groused. “Drop the dumb country boy shtick. You read.”

The toll booth was just ahead; even in the express lane, they moved at the speed of molasses oozing from a mason jar. Beyond, Lake Michigan sparkled in the morning sun, white crests on the waves. Terns dipped and dived into the water, snatching up tasty bits.

“Tell me we’re not paying in advance. Don’t even fix a price,” Clint sang the last bit. Old 80s song aside, he’d read Dante and Paradise Lost. He actually enjoyed them too.

Sitwell tapped a small white device stuck to in the middle of the windshield below the rearview mirror. “Hell’s EZpass,” he said. “Don’t even need to stop.”

The MDOT employee waved them through and they drove into the ferry, parking in the lower level. Everyone got out of their cars, heading up to main observation deck and the cafe. Clint lingered, tilting back the seat and kicking his legs up on the dash. “Wake me when we get there,” he said.

“Yeah, you’re not going to want to be down here for the crossing.” Sitwell leaned down and spoke through the open window. “Unless, of course, you want to go the rest of the way insane.”

“Seriously? Lots of living people on this floating palace, Jasper. A boatload of crazy shows up in Milwaukee … well, I’m not sure anyone would notice. The world’s a strange place nowadays.” Clint sighed and dragged his weary body out of the car. “You know, it occurs to me you could be nothing more than a hallucination, my fucked up brain giving me a reason to keep going.”

“Would it matter?”

Clint thought about it as they climbed the stairs. Squinting as he emerged from the darkness into the light, Clint saw him through the milling crowd, duffle over one shoulder, jacket folded over his bag. A tired slump to his shoulders, dark circles under his eyes, and a spatter of dried blood on his collar, Phil was only a shadow of himself.

“Not in the least,” Clint answered.

* * *

 Phil was taking no chances even with a six hour layover before his rescheduled flight. He scoped out the assigned gate -- there was nothing on the monitor there yet -- and he picked a Japanese sushi bar to stake out a table with a view of both the board and the gate area. Not hungry at all, he ordered a bowl of miso soup and hot tea, content to sip at the broth and watch the game playing on the big screen TV in the corner. At least the soup was hot going down his throat; Phil couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat and ate. The only image that came to mind was a package of pre-made peanut butter and crackers he’d taken from his suit pocket; that had been … weeks? months? … he must have eaten on his mission. Clint always picked little holes-in-the-walls, local joints with the best food. Hell, Phil ate better when he was away than at home where his fridge held little but condiments and moldy leftovers. While they’d been in … where had they been? …

“Couldn’t have picked a place to get a good steak?”

Phil looked up at the man standing next to him. “Garrett?”

John Garrett slid into the opposite seat and waved over the waiter. “I’ll have beef and shrimp teriyaki and let’s try a salmon, shrimp and tuna roll. Oh, and saki. Warm if you have it,” he ordered.

“Hungry?” Phil asked as his friend grinned. What were the odds of running into his old partner at Philly airport?

“You have no idea.” Garrett looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, wrinkles more pronounced in his face. “So, you figured it out yet?”

Pushing his bowl to the edge of table, Phil made room for the sake bottle. The waiter left two cups and Garrett poured dark liquid into them. “Figured out what?”

“Since when does SHIELD fly commercial? Where’s your equipment? Team? Think Phil.”

“What are you doing here, John?” Phil didn’t have the patience right now to deal with Garrett’s bullshit.

“It’s time to quit running, Phil, and accept the truth.” Garrett sipped his drink and sighed. “I’ve missed that burn.”

“Enough with the cryptic statements. Just tell me whatever it is you want to say.” Phil took a drink of his own; the alcohol rolled down his throat and hit his stomach where it sat like a stone. “It’s not a coincidence, you being here.”

“Smart about everything but yourself like always.” Garrett snagged the first piece of sushi and dunked it in a pool of soy sauce he poured out. He swallowed before he continued. “Okay. Here it is. You’re trapped in limbo. The man downstairs sent me to get you to accept that it’s time.”

“Right. Where’s Barton? This sounds like his sense of humor.” Last he’d heard, Garrett was running a hand-picked fast response team. He’d been deep undercover in Guatemala when Loki had come through the portal.

“I’m dead, Phil.” Garrett looked him right in the eye. “Hell is real; if I’d known, I might not have gone with HYDRA. Ah, who am I kidding? I’d have done it anyway. It was fun.”

“HYDRA? What the hell are you talking about?” Phil demanded. He’d had enough.”This isn’t funny.”

“Trust me, eternal damnation isn’t anything to joke about.” For a second, Garrett’s face shifted. Gaping wounds, gnawed around the edges, bone peeking through the raw flesh … Phil sat back, surprised, and reached for the gun he didn’t have. Then the visage disappeared. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Okay,” Phil said. “I’m listening.”

* * *

 The waiting room on the ferry was actually cool; ceiling fans rotated, moving the breeze from the open windows past the rows of seats. Clint had kicked his feet up on the opposite bench, crossed his ankles, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. He was studiously ignoring Sitwell, pretending to be asleep but listening to the sounds that floated into the room. Children’s laughter, the murmur of voices, and the calls of the birds that flocked around the boat, looking for a tourist’s handout grew dim, replaced by distant wails and growls, the whistle of the wind and muffled booms of thunder. Still unconvinced he wasn’t dreaming or crazy, Clint had gone along with Sitwell and settled here to wait out the crossing.

Someone smacked his calves, knocking his feet out of the bucket of the seat. Clint opened his eyes and jerked up straight at the sight of the man sitting down across from him. “Oh, no. Even I’m not fucked up that bad. No way I’d conjure you as my companion for this little trip.”

“Sorry, bro,” his brother Barney replied, kicking back and laying an arm across the empty seat next to him. In fact, the whole room was now empty, nothing but the roll of the waves and row upon row of vacant chairs. “When the big man says jump, you jump around here. He’s got an offer for you, one that’s too good to refuse. Really. You better say yes or I’m going to smack you upside your head.”

“I killed you.” Clint couldn’t breathe, the tight band around his chest flattening his lungs. His brother looked just like he always did: scruffy beard, worn t-shirt, battered jeans, and various nicks and cuts on his hands. “How the hell are you even here?”

“Cute, bro. I’m here because this is hell, remember? Anyway, you didn’t kill me, dude; Egghead and Zemo brought my body back to life. I don’t know what you killed, but it wasn’t me.” Barney grinned at him, that old smile Clint remembered from the good times before it all went wrong.  

“But why are you here?” Clint asked. He knew that Barney had been trying to atone for his sins the first time he died.

“Yeah, well, I’m sort of stuck in limbo, it seems. The bad still outweighs the good and the whole ‘my body went on a rampage’ sort of complicates things. Helping you might tip the balance in my favor, if you know what I mean.” Barney shrugged. “So, here’s the big guy’s offer. A one-way ticket out of hell alive. When the ship docks, you walk off in Milwaukee and go back to being an Avenger. Save the world a few more times before you call it quits. Do good and get yourself an elevator ride up instead of down.”

“Do not pass go, do not collect $200 and forget Phil Coulson, right? Yeah, sorry, but my life is pretty much over anyway and Phil deserves to be saved. Me, not so much.” He didn’t know when he’d decided that, but he felt it all the way down to his bones. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to bring Phil back. The world needed Phil Coulson.

“You have no clue what’s waiting for you where this boat is going. Please. Take the ticket. Go home.” Barney took a rectangular piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Clint -- an old fashioned printed airline ticket complete with boarding pass. “Look, death takes all the blinders off. I know how fucked up I was, what a bad brother I was. You can’t hide from your sins here. Let me do one thing for you, Clint. Let me take care of you one last time.”

A few years earlier, the plea might have worked. There’d been a time when Clint wanted nothing more than Barney to face his demons and deal with them. But that time was long gone; Loki’s control and Phil’s death had drained Clint of any hope that things would get better.

“Run back and tell your boss that I know how this game is played. I can’t play the harp or the fiddle and I suck at Twister, but I can still bargain for Phil’s soul,” Clint said. “Rumor is I’m not half bad with a bow.”

“Clint. You’re the World’s Greatest Marksman, but even you can be distracted. Duquesne is here … and worse. Don’t do this,” Barney practically begged.

“Bring on Fluffy and the hell of being boiled alive.” Clint crossed his arms over his chest, set on his course. “I had Loki in my head; I’ve been in hell for awhile now.”

* * *

 Phil cursed under his breath; every board he passed had a different gate number, a different boarding time, and a different flight number. The crumpled boarding pass in his pocket changed every time he looked. Terminal after terminal burst at the seams with passengers, lined ten and twelve deep. His phone was dead, his watch battery run down, and his bags felt like they weighed three extra tons. It wasn’t in his nature to give up, but neither could he ignore the obvious truth. This wasn’t the trip from hell. This was hell.

The only place he could find to sit was a spot on the wall under an advertisement for Independence Hall and the Benjamin Franklin Museum. A strange place to contemplate his own mortality, wedged between a teenage girl posting to her tumblr page and a businessman balancing his laptop on his knees as he worked on a spreadsheet. Not that Phil had never thought about the afterlife; people shot at him on a regular basis, so he’d spent many dark hours wondering what death would be like. Heaven, Hell … Phil had never imagined he’d be trapped in a travel nightmare for all eternity. Fiendishly simple, he had to admit, and very effective in the torture department.

If Garrett was to be believed, SHIELD had fallen and Steve Rogers had been instrumental in making it happen. The Fridge was emptied of all its prisoners and most of the upper level agents dead or part of HYDRA. Nick was gone. Natasha, at the center of the storm. And Clint had dropped off the map. But John had always been full of bullshit and if he really was HYDRA … had been HYDRA … ah, hell, Phil didn’t know what to believe. All he knew for sure was that he needed to get some sleep. What difference did it make if he closed his eyes? Maybe then it would all make sense.

* * *

Gravel crunched under his boots as he ran, jumping the metal rails and weaving through deserted boxcars. Sharp, quick breaths sounded loud in his ears, his chest burning as he dodged a sign post. Behind, he could hear the scrabble of claws, the growls of the pack that was closing in on him. Blood ran down his left leg, pooling in his boot, his right hip aching with every step. A bite on his shoulder numbed his right arm, and a cut on his temple was sluggishly bleeding and crusting over his eyelashes.

Teeth nipped at his heels and Clint was still an arm length away from the open door. The train was picking up speed, leaving the yard and Clint behind. Closer now, the growls were right on top of him, but he didn’t look back, stretching for the bar on the side of the car. If he stumbled, he’d be food for the hounds, going down beneath writhing bodies.

Barney couldn’t leave the boat and Jasper tried to take Clint into the city, but Clint had turned to find both car and man were gone. Then the howls had started, and he lost track of time as he fled through landscapes that looked like they belonged in a Hieronymous Bosch or an Edvard Munch painting. Clint had seen terrible things -- murders and torture -- but this was beyond anything he could have imagined. Men hung from trees, their heads immersed in swamp water. Humans constantly being flayed alive, eaten by animals. Water that moved away from thirsty mouths, skewed bodies and endless screaming.

His fingers curled around the rusty metal, slipped away, and he almost face planted under the wheels. Then he got a purchase and swung himself up into the empty space; a slavering mouth lunged at him, and he slammed the sliding door shut. The impact vibrated the car, knocking Clint back into a stack of boxes. He closed his eyes as the train picked up speed, giving him a moment to take a breath.

“Are you ready to be done with this yet?”

Clint snorted when he saw the man standing at the far end of the car. Dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and blue tie, the Devil looked exactly like Mark Sheppard.  “Of course. Let me guess. You appear differently to everybody; the bright morning star or some shit where you burn out human eyes.”

He laughed. “Nah, I’m just a fan of the show. Two male model sexy brothers killing monsters, fighting demons and angels who are dicks? What’s not to love?”

“I’d have thought you’d go for Mark Pellegrino. Lucifer, you know?” Clint’s words were thready as he tried to catch his breath.

“Ah, yeah, I’m not Lucifer. My name is Bob. The Devil is a title, sort of like the Director or the President. I worked my way up from the mailroom; trite, but true.” Perching on a crate, the Devil kept talking. “Technically, we’re a bigger company than Exxon Mobile; more employees and offices in multiple dimensions.”

“Right. You’re a Fortune 500 CEO. Bob the Devil.” Sarcasm dripped off Clint’s words.

Bob shrugged. “Believe it or not. So, I guess the question of the day is are you ready to put an end to this? Get out of hell free ticket still stands; you can be back in New York drinking Stark’s whiskey by tomorrow afternoon.”

“What I want is Phil Coulson. Alive and well and not a monster or demon or anything like that,” Clint said.

“See, here’s the thing. I can just let you die here … which you will of course because you’re human and the living body can only take so much abuse before it gives up the ghost … and then I get to keep Phil and take my chance to get you. So, why would I deal now?” Bob sat down on a crate, legging swinging as he rested his hands on his thighs.

“You can have me free and clear. Get to crow about how you’ve got an Avenger, you know, at divine cocktail parties or to pick up chicks in a bar.” Clint didn’t care; an eternity in the pit was no worse than the rest of his lifetime without Phil.

“Yeah, see I’ve got a really good chance of getting Tony Stark, considering what’s coming down the pike, and, sorry to tell you this, but Stark is a much bigger fish than you. No harm intended, you understand.”  Bob said, completely unfazed by Clint’s offer. “And Phil’s a great catch. Good man, honorable, duty bound, cursed by magical death? That’s a hell of a resume.”

“I’ll challenge you. That’s how it works, right? An archery contest, best out of three. If I win, I get Phil.” Clint knew the stories; the Devil couldn’t resist, right?

“A fiddle of gold against your soul?” Bob snorted. “Look, I like you kid, I really do. But you need to take this and go home.”

Clint looked at the ticket being held out towards him. He couldn’t abandon Phil; not after he’d come this far. Hell or not, crazy farm or not, Clint had to see this through. That’s what the long list of therapists always told him; he couldn’t quit on his recovery. “Please,” was all he could think to say. “I just want Phil.”

“Why?” Bob asked.

“Phil’s important. He’s a good man, like you said, and the world needs him. The Avengers need him. He deserves a life, a damn fine one, after all the sacrifices he made.” Clint was rambling, but he could see none of the answers were the right one; Bob just cocked his head and kept staring at Clint. “Phil … he’s the reason I … we … save the world. Without him, we’re just not the same.”

“We?” One corner of Bob’s mouth turned up slightly. “Lots of justification there, Barton. Are you sure this has nothing to do with the massive torch you’ve been carrying for Coulson all these years?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t … if I say yes will that help me?” Clint was willing to admit just about anything right now. “Yes, okay. I want Phil back. I need him. I’m the one who got him killed and I can’t live . . . I don’t want to live without him. I’m just a fucked up mess and Phil’s Phil. I’ll gladly give my life for his.”

“Now, was that so difficult?” Bob stood, the ticket disappearing into thin air. “Only one bargaining chip is really worth anything down here. Of course, it’s not that easy. This is hell after all.”

Clint opened his mouth to speak but Bob touched the back of Clint’s hand, and Clint’s eyes went dark.

* * *

 Airports clear out late at night; long hallways and row after row of chairs were empty and echoing as Phil’s shoes clicked along the tile floor. The wheels of his suitcase made a steady rumble as it rolled behind him. The few people he passed were employees going about their jobs slowly. The janitor sweeping the floor barely glanced up, and the woman at the emergency counter didn’t put down her cell phone as he passed. Every store and restaurant was closed, the only choice for food and drink the over priced vending machines randomly dotted along the terminal halls.

Years of training wouldn’t let Phil do anything but find a seat in a corner with a view of both directions. Leaning his head back against the concrete brick wasn’t comfortable, but he was past caring about that. The arches of his feet ached, his head was pounding with the beginnings of a migraine, and his chest was tight with lancing pains that ran all the way down his arm. It went against his grain to give up, but he was almost there. Wandering around was getting him nowhere fast.

“So, are you ready to talk about this?’

Phil looked the man over from head-to-toe; the fact he’d just appeared should have bothered Phil, but weird shit seemed to be par for the course. Black leather shoes, black pants, black shirt, black jacket -- all of excellent quality including the ice blue tie, the only color. There was something vaguely familiar about him, like Phil had seen him somewhere before.

“I’m ready for a drink and a good night’s sleep,” Phil answered.

“That can be arranged.” The man sat back, crossing his feet at the ankles. “But I’ve got to hear you say it. I know you understand how important it is to follow the rules.”

“So there’s paperwork in hell?” Phil snorted a laugh. Of course; Clint always joked that stacks of forms up to the ceiling was his worst nightmare.

“You’d think, being the boss, I’d be able to delegate, but no. Let’s just say that efficient people rarely end up on the payroll. Bob,” he said offering a hand. “The Devil.”

“Bob. Right.” Phil actually had to choke back a giggle; he was tired and getting punchy about the whole situation. “The Devil named Bob in the Philadelphia airport. All we’re missing is bad music over the intercom.”

Like magic, an easy listening version of Barry Manilow’s "Ships" began playing, soft muted horns and far too many strings. Phil grimaced. “Really?” he asked Bob.

“It’s one of our best torture techniques. Why go bloody when some classic 70s pop will do the trick? Much easier to clean up afterwards,” Bob replied. “Now, down to brass tacks. Why are you so anxious to get to New York, Phil? Why not just give up and rest?”

“I want to go home,” Phil answered honestly. “And if Garrett’s right, they need me there. I’m missed a lot while I’ve been lost.”

“Don’t you think you’ve already done more than your fair share? You tried to stop Loki on your own. Gutsy, but ultimately not the smartest move, I’ll admit.” Bob looked Phil straight in the eye. “They’re good people who can handle it, Phil. You trained most of them.”

“It’s just … I mean … I know Natasha will be fine and Steve and even Stark now that he’s got Pepper and the others.” Phil stumbled over his own thoughts, unsure how to give them voice. “It’s not that they can’t, it’s that …” he trailed off as a hot band of pain pressed down on his chest. Coughing, he tried to get a breath, but he couldn’t make his lungs expand enough.

“Only thing that works down here is the truth.” Bob reached over and put a hand on Phil’s shoulder; the pain eased immediately. “What do you have to live for, Phillip Coulson?”

He closed his eyes as the image of Clint rose in his mind, the video of the attack on Stuttgart, the end of Loki’s spear touching his chest. “You have heart,” Loki had said. Phil had wanted to scream at the screen when he saw it, run and place himself in front of that power.

“I need to know Clint’s alright. If he’s even alive. I need to get back to him.” He’d never said anything that close to the truth aloud before to anyone. As soon as the words left his mouth, the pain disappeared and he took a deep breath. “Just let me know that he’s okay and I’ll go wherever you point me. Hell, purgatory … just let me see him once more.”

“There you go.” Bob stood. “I think we can manage a quick glimpse, but then you’ll have to choose your course. It’s a deal.”

As quick as he came, he was gone. Light streamed in through the windows and an elderly couple took the last empty seats near Phil. The departure board flipped over and he saw flight 2360 for New York appear; boarding now at gate C24. Glancing at his rumpled ticket, Phil grabbed his things and broke into a run once he was free of the maze of seats.

* * *

 “US Airways flight 2360 for New York City is now boarding rows 17 and forward. Please have your ticket ready for the gate agent.”

Music filtered into his brain. _We’re like strangers you and I, a wide world apart_ , the lyrics said. Clint blinked awake as someone shook him, sitting up straight and barely restraining himself from taking the gate attendant down in a choke hold. “Sorry,”  he mumbled.

“Sir, the flight is boarding. I didn’t want you to miss it,” the young African American said. Dressed in one of the blue uniforms of the airline, the man’s name tag proclaimed he was Barry.

“Yeah. Um, thanks.” Clint had no clue what was going on, just that he had a duffle at his feet, his bow case and a ticket in one hand. Seat 3A, his pass proclaimed, was reserved for one Clinton Francis Barton. Right. He’d failed and the Devil, Bob, had sent him here. To go home, his tail between his legs, and live his fucked up life knowing he’d had the shot and, for once, missed.

What difference did it make, he wondered? He was bound to end up here anyway. Too much water under the bridge for Clint not to. This was his fate; sitting alone, tormented by what ifs and why nots.

“I’m telling you, I need to get on that plane!”

Clint glanced up; a statuesque blonde in a leather jacket was arguing with the gate agent.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but only ticketed passengers are allowed past this point,” was Barry’s reply.

“You don’t understand. It’s a matter of life and death. I have to warn them; I’m the only one who knows!” She tried to push down the ramp to the door, but Barry stepped in her way, unimpressed by the woman’s strength.

“Don’t make me call security,” he warned, his eyes flashing red.

“People are going to die!” She tried to plough forward but Barry wrestled her back, pushing her away from the gate.

“No exceptions. Now please. I have a plane to get loaded,” Barry said.

She stomped her foot and spun, pacing towards where Clint sat. Without warning, she kicked a small overnight bag, knocking it into the big glass window; she crumpled down in a seat, her head in her hands.

“End of the world? Really?” Clint found himself asking.

Big blue eyes looked up at him, red rimmed with tears of frustration. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.

“Try me. You might be surprised,” Clint replied.

“Alien invasion on an apocalyptic level.” She shook her head as if she didn’t even believe it. “I saw them on the monitor then, BOOM, an explosion and now I’m trapped here.”

Clear, precise answer, worn leather bomber jacket, clenched fists … Clint looked her over and made his decision. “Which branch of the military?”

Startled, she sat up ramrod straight. “Air force,” she said.

“Here.” Clint pressed his ticket into her hands. “Take this and get on the plane.”

“I can’t … it’s your ticket with your name.” She stood as Clint pulled her up with him.

“All tickets are transferable,” Barry said. Clint hadn’t heard the man approach. “Thumbprint identification is all we need.”  He held out a small portable scanner; Clint pressed his thumb to the pad and nudged the woman past the line of passengers still waiting to board.

“Go. Save the world. Call Tony Stark and tell him you need help.”

She blustered and started to argue, but something in Clint’s eyes gave away his feelings. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “For whatever brought you here. But thank you for this chance.”

Turning, she headed down the ramp that doubled back to the door at a lower level. Pausing, she called up to him, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Clint,” he told her.

“I’m Carol,” she said then disappeared down the gateway.

The oppressive weight of hopelessness dropped away; Clint took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. Suddenly, he was hungry; a sign for Legal Seafood was on the wall with an arrow pointing back towards the main check-in desks. A big plate of fish and chips would hit the spot, he thought. As far as torment went, being stuck in a place with bathrooms, restaurants, and televisions wasn’t all that bad. Picking up his bow and his bag, he started to walk away just as Barry began the final boarding call.

* * *

 

“ … final boarding for US Airways Flight 2360 for New York. Repeat, this is the final …”

Phil was sprinting towards the gate, the handle of his laptop case digging into his shoulder. He could see the podium, the smiling young man in his blue uniform jacket scanning a piece of paper and handing it back to an elderly Asian man. Almost there, almost there, almost there, he thought. Skidding to a halt, he realized he was wheezing and out of breath, a sharp pain running up the center of his back and around his chest. Fumbling, he searched for his ticket, patting his jacket and his pockets.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of purple and he tracked it without thinking. Familiar duffle and a black hardback bow case. Ripped jeans, dirty sneakers, purple hoodie. Blonde hair, hand running through the messy locks as he walked away.

“Clint?” The name fell out of his mouth, loud enough to carry.

Purple hoodie paused; his head came up, and he turned so Phil could see the profile of his bumpy nose, long lashes, and the dried blood streaked from his temple. Blue grey eyes turned Phil’s way.

“Phil?”

For seconds, neither one moved then they met somewhere in the middle, duffles and cases and suitcases forgotten as the stared at each other. Clint looked beat up; Phil’s took in every bump and scratch as he eyed Clint. One shoulder of his hoodie was ripped and what looked like teeth marks were livid on his skin.

“What are you doing here?” Phil managed to push the words past his lips. “Are you … You can’t be …”

“I’m alive,” Clint told him. “Well, I think I am, anyway. Although not so sure now that I gave my ticket away.”

“Why?” Phil couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. Clint was alive and here.

“To find you.  We need you. I need you. It’s not … I mean I’m not … I miss you, Phil.” Clint dropped his eyes, his cheeks flushed. “I just want you back.”

“I was worried about you.” In for a penny, Phil thought. If ever there was a time to declare his feelings, standing in airport purgatory about to miss his flight was as trite and cliche as Phil could think of. “I was an idiot for not saying anything. When Loki took you, I couldn’t think straight. Did some really stupid things and wound up here.”

“Aw, hell, Phil, I’m sorry I made you do it. If I’d been stronger, able to resist …” Clint ducked his head; Phil was having none of it.

“You didn’t make me do anything. And you did resist. You didn’t kill Fury or Maria and I know you could have.” Phil snorted a half-laugh. “Morons. Both of us. I should have just asked you out. Everyone kept telling me you’d say yes. Took you hunting me down in hell to make me believe it.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to be closing the gateway door in a moment,” Barry interrupted. “If you want to board, sir, you need to do so now.”

“Plane. Right.” Phil took his ticket out of his pocket. He turned it over, looked at the first class seat in row 3 and back up at Clint. A fleeting shadow of shock haunted Clint’s eyes and then hopeless acceptance.

“Go,” Clint said. “Get out of here. Let me do this one thing right.”

“You gave your ticket away.” The words Clint had said sank into Phil’s conscious brain. “You can’t go back.”

“I thought I’d missed my chance. Bob said … well, he didn’t really say anything outright, just told me to take the ticket and go home.”

You’ll have to make a choice. That’s what the Devil had said to Phil. Reaching out, he took Clint’s hands, feeling the callouses and the knobby fingers, and pressed the ticket into Clint’s palm. “You need to get on the plane,” he said with surety. “The world needs Hawkeye; there are people still to be saved. I’ve done my part; I’m already dead, Clint. You’re not.”

“No, Phil. Just no. I can’t … I can’t live without you.” Clint’s voice cracked and he squeezed Phil’s hands tight. “Don’t ask me to leave you again.”

Stepping back, Phil straightened his shoulders and put on his best Agent Coulson voice. “This is an order, Barton. Get your ass on that plane. I need you to keep an eye on Natasha; you ground her and help her have as normal a life as possible. And help Steve acclimate. And Thor too if he’s still around. Stark needs a friend who won’t judge him or try to mother him. Banner needs to know he’s valuable on his own and the Hulk needs to be trusted. That’s your mission.”

“I don’t … Phil.” Tears gathered at the corner of Clint’s eyes. Raising a hand, Phil caught one with his thumb and wiped it away.

“Please, Clint. If I know you’re alive and out there, I can rest. I’m so very tired.”

It was the first time Phil had admitted it. A fog of confusion lifted in his mind; the words felt like weight dropping away.

“Last call,” Barry said.

Clint’s eyes glanced down at his hands then back up to Phil’s face, every emotion writ large in the changeable depths. Shoving the ticket in his pocket, his rough palms slid along Phil’s jaws as Clint surged forward and pressed his mouth to Phil’s. Clint’s lips were dry and chapped, a rough slide of a kiss that was fast and deep, an explosion of need. Phil’s brain barely had time to register all the sensations -- the warmth of Clint’s hands, pressure of his fingertips, taste of his mouth -- before Clint was pulling back.

“I won’t be long,” Clint promised. “You know that.”

“I have faith you’ll find me when you get here,” Phil told him.

With a wistful smile, Clint picked up his case and his duffle and headed down the ramp to the door. He never looked back, moving at a purposeful stride until he was out of view, the gate agent shutting the door with a clang. Phil stepped over to the window and watched as the bridge slowly retracted, the minutes inching by until the plane reversed and rolled backwards, taxiing out of the airport and to the runway.

Releasing the breath he’d been holding, Phil’s eyelids closed as he drew in another, slow and even, then opened them again. “I’m ready.”

“Every time I think I’ve figured people out, you surprise me.” Bob stepped up beside Phil. “How willing you are to throw yourselves into the fire.”

“It’s what makes us human,” Phil replied.

“I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt. A lot.” Bob reached out and touched Phil on the cheek.

The world went dark.

* * *

 

“Even for you, this is a whole new level of stupid.”  Nick Fury towered over Clint, dark sunglasses over his eyes and a stocking cap covering his head.

Clint blinked in the fluorescent light and unfolded his aching body from the plastic chair. A bandage wrapped around his leg and the wound in his shoulder was cleaned and covered. Touching his temple, he felt two small butterfly bandages.

“The question is how you found this top secret facility and got inside.” Fury sighed, slumping in on himself. “You look like hell, Barton.”

“You have no idea, Nick. It’s been a strange few ...” Clint started to say but then he turned and caught sight of the room beyond the large window. Lying on the bed, tubes and leads running to his body, was Phil Coulson. A lump formed in Clint’s throat, and he couldn’t breath. “You lying son of a bitch.”

“He’s in a persistent vegetative state. Every damn specialist, the best minds we have, say there’s no chance of him waking up.” Nick stepped up to the window and stared at his friend. “But there’s magic and aliens and tech out there we haven’t tried. I’m not giving up yet.”

“Fuck.” Clint’s forehead thunked against the glass “Self-sacrificing idiot.” He’d curse Bob, but the Devil had given them their own choices. Sighing, Clint shoved his hands in his pockets and closed his eyes.

Paper crinkled beneath his fingers; he drew out the heavy pass, half folded over, perforated stub still attached. Details jumped out at him: Delta Airlines flight 1302 from Cleveland to New York City, smudged ink over the departure time, name blurred and faded at the top. His mind whirled as he remembered what Bob had said: only one bargaining chip was worth anything in hell.

The door to the isolation room had a biometric lock; on the wall was a hand scanner, waiting for a person to lay their fingers in the designated place. Hope spiked and he moved without hesitation, pressing his hand to the pad.

“You’re not authorized …” Fury protested, but he subsided when the light turned green and the door clicked open. Clint was through in seconds, crossing the space; he slipped the ticket into Phil’s hand, folding the limp fingers around the paper and holding tight.

“Phil,” Clint called the name, leaning over the immobile body. “Get on the damn plane.”

“Barton? What are you doing?” Fury asked from the doorway.

“I can’t do this without you, Phil.” Ignoring Fury, Clint kept talking. “I’ve transferred the ticket; now it’s up to you. Get your ass in gear.”

“Clint.” A hand fell on Clint’s shoulder. “He’s not going to answer. Let me get Dr. Streiten in here; you’re tired and need rest.”

“Phil!” Clint squeezed his fingers. “Tell Bob to fuck off and come back to me.”

Nothing happened. Clint waited and watched, but Phil didn’t so much as twitch. It was too much to ask for, really; good things didn’t happen to Clint. Happy endings were for sappy movies not real life, and definitely not his life.

“Come on. Get some food and sleep and then you can come sit with him.” Fury pulled Clint away from the edge of the bed.He didn’t want to let go, clenching Phil’s fingers tight, hanging onto to the quickly dwindling hope. But Fury tugged and Clint released Phil’s hand, leaving the ticket behind.

Alarms blared as Phil surged up, his back arching and his eyes flying opening. Hands twisted in the sheets as he bucked then thrashed back and forth, trying to drag in a breath. The air tube blocked his throat, and he clawed at it, trying to pull it out.

White coated doctors and scrub wearing nurses poured into the room, shoving Clint and Fury out of the way. They held Phil down and took out the tube; the main doctor, an older African American man with greying hair, shouted instructions as they struggled to contain Phil.

“Cheese!” Fury fought his way to the side of the bed, leaning down and waiting for Phil’s wild eyes to settle on his face. “Tango Sierra Foxtrot 1978. Stand down; you’re safe.”

Phil folded in on himself and stopped fighting, sagging back onto the bed. “C … c …” Phil tried to speak but fell into a coughing fit.

“Relax, Phil. You’ve been in a coma; give yourself time,” the doctor told him.

Turning his head, Phil scanned the people around him, growing more and more agitated until his eyes fell on Clint standing just outside the circle of frantic activity. With a long sigh, Phil settled and lifted a hand, reaching out. Clint stepped forward and slipped his palm against Phil’s, squeezing lightly.

“I’m here.” Clint couldn’t stop the stupid grin that spread across his face. “Didn’t get my fiddle of gold, though. Guess you’ll have to do.”

“Never … flying … commercial again.” Phil’s voice was rough but steady.

“Between Tony’s plane and the quinjet, we’ll be fine,” Clint promised.

* * *

 

~+~ Epilogue ~+~

“She’s doing very well,” the psychologist was saying. “Responding to stimuli and interacting at a more advanced level. The doctors believe she may eventually be able to shift to the social enrichment program.”

Phil looked through the window at the brightly colored playroom where a fourteen-year-old girl was sitting on rubberized puzzle tiles, patiently stacking wooden blocks.

“The move wasn’t too traumatic?” he asked.

“She wasn’t happy for the first few weeks, but we have good people working with her, very patient and extensively trained to aid people with her condition.”

It had taken three months of tracking and intensive detective work to find her, one Eliza Renee Martin, bystander and victim of a shooting that left her with a traumatic brain injury. She’d been two when a stray bullet had hit her. In the end, it was the money trail, systematic payments to a facility in Chicago through a series of bank accounts that traced back to Jasper Sitwell. Phil knew Jasper had run with a bad crowd for a time; reading the police report of the incident had left no doubt that he was the one who fired the gun. To Jasper’s credit, he’d gone back and found Eliza later, abandoned by her mother and in a public facility, barely able to do more than lie in bed. From then on, he’d paid for her treatment.

“Nice tower,” Clint said as Eliza stood and the block wall rose higher than her head.

“She shows a good spacal aptitude; that could be an entrance to communication eventually. We’re very hopeful,” the psychologist said. “With our new funding stream, we’re going to be able to add some unique therapy options.”

They talked for a while longer before taking their leave; Phil saw Eliza’s smile as she knocked the blocks down and began separating them into matching piles to start again.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Clint said as he slid behind the wheel of his Charger, “if good old Bob didn’t have a hidden agenda.”

It was nothing Phil hadn’t thought before. Too many details that just worked out -- Jasper’s secret, Barney’s attempt to mend fences, Garrett’s revelation about HYDRA -- to think it was all coincidence. Still, Phil wasn’t clear on a motive. “And what would that be?”

“He said Hell was a business; if you think like a CEO it doesn’t make sense to have people in places they don’t belong, to not use their skills for the best of the company. You and I can do a lot more to help him by taking down the villain of the week and sending them his way.” Clint pulled out of the parking lot. “He said there was some shit coming that would test us; maybe this was all a set up to get more Avengers free and clear later.”

Phil stared at Clint’s profile, the curve of his cheek and the way his lashes framed his eyes. Rebuilding strength and muscle mass hadn’t been easy and Phil still had miles to go to get back to one hundred percent, but Clint had been at his side the whole way. They settled easily into being a couple, so many years of being partners and friends paving the way to practically living together from the moment Phil moved into the Tower. And the sex was … well, Phil didn’t really have any measurement for just how good Clint Barton was in bed.

“So he let us get out because we’ll increase his bottom line?” Phil snorted. It made some sort of strange sense, he supposed.

“Plus, he knows we’ll toss ourselves into the line of fire for each other, so he’s bound to see us again.” Clint shrugged as if he hadn’t just admitted to being willing to die for Phil.

“Yeah, I love you too,” Phil replied. “But no more road trips to or from Hell.”

Clint grinned. “Now I need some AC/DC. Playlist road trip,” he said to the dashboard mini-Jarvis. The opening strains of “Highway to Hell” came over the speakers. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“No Barry Manilow?” Phil teased.

Before Clint could answer, Phil’s phone rang, Tony’s face flashing on the screen. With a sigh, Phil answered. If he didn’t, Stark would just take over the car and broadcast on the speakers.

“Tony?”

“Hey, tell Katniss I’ve got some woman named Carol on the phone. Says Clint told her to call and she’s babbling about an alien invasion.”

Phil and Clint caught each other’s eyes; Clint increased his speed and began weaving in and out of traffic.

“Talk to her. We’re on the way.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I was actually at Dallas/Ft. Worth one time when I was grounded overnight and tornadoes hit the hotel I was staying in. The black Lincoln Town Car part happened to me at 4 a.m. in the morning just as I described. Still halfway convinced that was the devil inviting me to get in. The luggage at Philly? Yeah, I lived that one too, along with the constantly changing gates and rude employees. 
> 
> There is a Hell, Michigan and a ferry across the lake to Milwaukee. The sushi place in terminal C is pretty decent in Philly. 
> 
> Jasper's backstory is a nod to John Marcone in the Dresden Files.


End file.
